


West of the Horizon

by midinvaerne



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Almaren, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi, Pre-Valinor, angbang, seduction of mairon, the angband gang, west coast (ish)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6170317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midinvaerne/pseuds/midinvaerne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to Los Almaren, and please, meet the squad: Gothmog, the reliable, if somewhat brutish right hand of trouble, Thuringwethil, the most sarcastic and viciously practical law student you could find in a little black dress, and finally, Melkor. There is no need to introduce him. Mairon didn't sign up for this - but nothing is planned, everything is a coincidence. And, in Melkor's opinion, the city's most notorious and feared troublemakers are definitely the best option for him. Don't think he will accept that some people might disagree.<br/>A west coast inspired modern AU of the seduction of Mairon. Seduction in many manners, at that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	West of the Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> Melkor and his crew make an appearance. And who's that quite interesting stranger over there?

“Of course, officer. No more problems. I’ll keep it in mind.” he grinned widely, but the eyes behind the mirror lens of a pair of round sunglasses narrowed with a dangerous release of venom. Before he threw one leg over the seat of the motorbike, he zipped his leather jacket, propping the collar up. The salty breeze licked at the asphalt, simmering with heat. He looked towards the city skylines that now cast long shadows of hills, the silhouettes of skyscrapers like fingers that reached somewhere towards the mountaintops. The air was very hot, and everything smelled like the sea - the wind blew from the west today.  
“But keep in mind you don’t own me.” His grin became wicked, showing a wide array of teeth to the whole world and everyone who was watching. And he, turning the throttle and pressing down on the gas, drove off, accompanied only by the wind that ruffled his long hair, stroking down along his scalp like the greedy hands of ghosts. The motor roared like a thing alive, so loud, so warm and strong, a steel-chested horse. The road opened its arms and welcomed them eagerly, its searing hot black tongue unfolding down unto infinity, disappearing in the spiderweb of intertwining roads. He accepted the invitation, his long tresses a black and gray flag of rebellion pinned to a garment of leather, heated by the late afternoon’s sun to be cooled back down by the streaming air. And if the bike was alive, then his entire existence was electrifyingly pulsing with life.

A raiment of stars had been thrown over the seaside skies, bright and shining and gorgeous. The long lines of sand were all but emptied of all visitors, the road too far and the city lights even further away, nothing but a pair of heels thrown afar, lying forlorn ahead of the little, foaming waves that licked at the gray shores, the glimmering abyss rippling as a pair of slender, pale legs forced it to part, sending the water streaming in unnatural ways, yet walking into it so softly, she seemed to be a part of the void herself, the curtain of her long locks completely covering the gentle curves of her back, the sharp lines of shoulderblades and cascading musculature of the hips. Her hands sank into the water, diving it, and then came her face, her chest now completely submerged, the thin rivulets running down her pale cheeks and streaming down the sharp jawline that bordered them.  
The luminous light of a little flame flashed in the darkness, and a string of smoke drifted towards the very thin crescent of the moon up overhead, distorting his sight at the endless waters of the ocean. Never, ever calm, even in a cloudless night filled with the reflections of stars upon the water. And her body swimming in the water, behaving as if she belonged there, not into the discarded black dress and a pair of polished pumps that were now thrown onto the ground and seemingly forgotten, a relic of a different and far more tied-up life.  
She breathed in the cold night air, letting the salty water carry her skinny body, her fingertips barely sticking out of the water, and all of her dark hair slicked back, wetly plastered to her neck and shoulders before drifting into every direction within the depths. The waves rocked her ever so gently, almost a caress as they poured over her body and lapped at her neck every now and then in regular cycles. Not a man in sight, except for the one that sat on the sands, now smoking a thin cigarette, the red light barely managing to illuminate even the outlines of his square jaw and deep-set eyes, the shoulder-length hair pulled into a low ponytail.  
“You’re like one of those expensive commercials.” he grinned, pulling from the cigarette and chuckling loudly, stretching his legs over the sand.  
“Don’t you get any ideas.” she replied icily, turning around and swimming further away from the shore in a cascade of elegant motions, smooth as the thick flow of dripping oil.

The floorboards of a dusty apartment creaked as they were kissed by a couple of thick-soled shoes, singing and moaning under every slow, leisurely step. Blinking, a series of lights came to life, like blooming flowers illuminating slowly peeling walls and an array of pictures, clothes thrown over aging furniture, and clouds of smoke that still lingered under the ceiling. Clouds of sharply-smelling and acrid fumes, the sort that a dying thing breathes out when the flames eat its fragile body up, licking and biting into the fleeting existence and spitting out ash. He suffocated the butt of a cigarette against the glass surface of a table, grinding it down slowly with his thumb and leaving a thin line of ash where he dragged it against the surface.  
He breathed the steamy, salt-flavored air in, till it filled his lungs to the brim, and from the edges of his lips released a cloud of white smoke, drifting towards the high ceiling in thin strings, like hungry and reaching tendrils outstretching their hands upwards, but grasping nothing but the air, and dissipating. What had to disappear was gone, and nothing but smoke now lingered in the air, a pungent reminder of the evanescence of all things. An arsonist sang his sweet lullaby to the flames when he watched them die down and leave no marks but ash on the shoulders of the world, now a worry easier and a pleasurable memory richer.  
This temporary tranquility was shattered by the soft vibration of phone in his pocket, and his eyes drifted away from the window he had been staring into, instead aiming down onto the cracked screen.  
“Yeah, boss?”

It was the thick, earthen smell of cracked ground drinking down the rainwater of a heavy downpour that greeted him in a house that was not his home that evening, an aged key in hand and the rivulets of water running down through a labyrinth of studs on the shoulders of his jacket. He stepped forwards, leaving traces of his existence in the form of wet footprints on the black tiles, the soft clink of chains and buckles a sufficient herald for his entrance. And then once more, not bothering to light the luminous eyes of chandeliers and wake their slumbering circuitry, because he could see well enough even in the dark. He inhaled the rain-scented air of early autumn, one of the rare nights that the sky decided to weep for the fast life of man, and he breathed wet exhaust fumes on the driveway as the soaked leather stuck to his skin, the burning petrol stirring the engine to a hum underneath his body. Soundless and secret, coming unannounced as always, and the moon was gone behind the thin covers of clouds, he closed his eyes and disappeared.  
Strangely enough, she was still working, the clicking of her fingers upon the keyboard a sing-song tune of the whispering piano of routine, her eyes reflecting orderly lines of text like mirrors. He stood in the doorway so quietly, merely leaning onto it and watching, not a word falling from his lips. Then, he, unhooking his thumbs from the loop of his belt, finally thread over the planks of the flooring, approaching her with his head held high.  
“Boots off.” she reminded him in place of a greeting, her gaze not parting with her screen even once. Her voice rang clear within the solid and sparse lines of the apartment, till all came to a still again, but he did not respond with more than a wolfish grin, eyes pale as stars narrowing into a couple of thin and calculating crescents.  
“Got time for everything.” he spoke back in low, smooth tones, as leathery and rugged as the jacket he then slid off his shoulders, and threw it on the nearest free chair, his muscular form now relieved of its black constraints. He took a few more steps forwards, running a few fingers against the wooden edge of the simple desk, head tilted to the side with a curious smirk playing at his lips.  
“You’re ruining my flooring.” she added icily, the motions of her fingers coming to a still.  
“It rains thrice a year, Thil. Calm your fucking tits.” Rolling his eyes, he seated himself on the edge of her desk, crossing one leg over the other and watching the slight flicker of neons, suspended around the edges of the ceiling, liberated from all moths by the benevolence of the downpour. “And by the way, we’re going out.”  
She quirked a brow.  
“Get dressed. I’m taking you out to eat, we’re meeting downtown.” He did not look at her when he spoke.  
“I would rather take my car.” The laptop was sharply snapped close, and she got up, her bare feet not making a sound as she traced over towards the corridor.  
“Well, tough shit.” he shrugged, “Cause I’m not leaving my bike here.”

Opening their gaping maws, the streets made way for the headlights of cars, and countless men like ants passing through in the haze of crowds, the disharmony of voices, screeching tires, horns, and the darkening skies. The earth bore them all upon her wide shoulders, carrying the collective weight of all the sinners and their wrongs, all the saints and their rights. They walked that earth separate from the masses, prowling the corners that few others dared to follow into, if they ever even thought of it; the dangerous, treacherous ones, the ones that belonged to them and them only, or so they were convinced, for there was no crown for the dark king, only a wreath of barbed wire, and you had to weave it with your own bloodied hands if you wished to assume authority.  
He climbed the stairs with confidence, strong, thick legs taking them by two, sometimes three, and he left a hand on the rail just for a sense of security. The sun was already slowly beginning to set beyond the sea, its long rays licking at the windows of skyscrapers, making out with the city like a long-lost lover, parting for three eternities again. And it really was, for the night was a capricious mistress.  
The door banged shut behind him, stirring the air-conditioned atmosphere of the loft that swiftly cooled down the beads of sweat, running down his neck and disappearing in the folds of his aged, washed T-shirt. Everything felt stiff, still and cool despite the heat of the outside world, as if the time had come to stop on the dust-covered shelves and in old posters, skidding across frozen figures of musicians and sliding past the miniature guitar strings till it crashed and fell to the floor, and there lied in a tangle of wires until the sundering of the heavens. His chest heaved after his quick jog towards the top floor, but all he found in the kitchen was a vast emptiness, and a whiff of smoke coming from the half-open door. The floor was too dirty, the paint was slowly peeling. A few grains of sand from the beach and dust from the streets would never be noticed.  
His fingers wiped down the humidity, beading on the metallic surface of a beer can, letting the clear water run down the creases between the veins on his wrists, and drip off his hands, splattering on the concrete ground. The lid clicked as he opened it, licking at the thick foam with the tip of his tongue before taking a swig, steps heavy, but relaxed, circling round, round, round. This place smelled of cigarettes and leather just like its owner, so soaked with the stench that it was cloying, suffocating, swirling about the feet of a passer-by like dust, only heavier.  
Equally slowly, the door opened ahead of the tip of his boot. A thin shaft of light illuminated the ground, shining through the thin slits between curtains that had not been opened for ages already. He swallowed the bitter liquid, and felt it trickle down his throat before his eyes ran up to the hint of movement, recorded at the foot of the bed.  
He was there, undressed down to his waist, and the smooth curves of his body moved like snakes under a veil of silk when he pulled on a cigarette, blowing clouds of graying smoke into the air every now and then. Ash fell down onto the stained covers as his fingers softly ran a piece of cotton wool against his bloodied knuckles. The stench of smoke mixed with a sharp whiff of disinfectant every now and then.  
“It’s not even dinner yet.” he commented idly, leaning on the doorway.  
He looked up, and momentarily, the pale eyes met the brown.  
“I’ve not killed anyone yet,” he chuckled, momentarily positioning the filter between his fingers, his shoulders making small circles as he stretched them out, eyes running all over the room.  
“And are you gonna?” The aluminium dented under the immensely strong hand that squeezed it.  
“Maybe.”  
He laughed, airily, but it was no kind and enlightening sound.

The city streets stank of coffee and sleep when the light began climbing over the distant mountains, silhouettes of slumbering giants, like a curious child peering through windowpanes, throwing its golden hair over the cracked asphalt and cat-headed tiles. The ocean welcomed it with the open arms of waves, still warm from yesterday’s searing heat, and its breath flooded the streets when they kissed, the salty breeze mingling with the dry dust of the hills, meeting in the crowned heads of palm-trees and upon the steel of constructions that stood like guardians on the watch, their eyes on the coast, looking both ways, but never below their own feet. Fast cars raced like golden chariots across the street, drawn by hellhorses, saltwater foaming around their gnashing teeth, the smooth ground rolling under their wheels as they flashed past, and their reflections tried to get ahead of them in the windows of countless stores.  
And no one would give them a second look. There were more than many at the seaside. And she was headed elsewhere, to the wide boulevards paved with materialism and an exclamation of wealth noiselessly screaming into one’s eyes, a paper cup breathing out coffee-scented fumes between her poised, pale fingers. Elsewhere, this early in the morning already on her way, the sound of her heels clicking on the ground a haunting echo, a whisper in the wind that toyed with her hair. The sunrise licked at her skin, casting stark black shadows on her pale cheeks, a forlorn lover at her back, for she was headed seawards, and she walked fast. Then, her lips connected with the white lid of the coffee cup, and the dark liquid spilled through the little crease between their crimson curves, sliding down her tongue and through the arches of her throat, before its tide receded with a smooth move of her arm, and her pace picked up again.  
A long shadow appeared at the tips of her shoes, reaching further and further over the route, its steps crashing heavy on the ground as it approached. She did not need to look back. She did not need to turn. He would catch up.  
And he did. The black fingers of the shadows of his hand reached up, before disappearing in thick, shadowy tangles.  
“Work?” His voice cut the air in half, sharply like a knife, bearing into the blue-tinted sky.  
“Not like you’d know anything about that.” She smirked, ever so smoothly, her entire being a slick creation from silks and satins.

The bustle of the world never came to a still, not in this city. Ever. Its heart never stopped beating, its neon eyes of streetlights and lightbulbs never stopped blinking, its factorized lungs never stopped breathing out hazy fumes and spilling them over the wide canvas of the skies, lying sideways on the hillsides, with fingertips reaching through their slopes, and feet in the cool ocean waves. Alcohol stank like spilled blood when it crashed down into a carved glass, and specked the insides like spurting viscera, crimson, and very, very vibrant. Thick layers of smoke veiled the long lines of lights, distorting them from the sight. And oh, it was so silent despite the music that shook the premises in their very foundations, the cacophony of voices and motions that interrupted it in every moment from a different direction, so very silent! So very still!  
He licked at the flames and swallowed them, letting them slide down his throat, the ghosts of fire; and then, he breathed them out through his lips, a bitter-scented kiss to the dark. Another cigarette touched the tip of the one between his fingers, borrowing its flame to make out with a different pair of lips, and a third flame flickered in the dark moments after, blazing and dancing, but short-lived, and swiftly extinguished, drawing its last breath at the tip of a lighter before dying down, kicking sparks up into the air with its early passing.  
It always seemed that they were alone, no company would dare approach them from too close up. Always kept at a distance due to an universal fear of their wild, untamed existences; they were a force of nature that cannot be befriended, or more so, controlled, and as such, they deserved to be feared. And he, he loved being feared, he breathed the stench of anxiety into his blackened lungs together with the smoke and tar of cigarettes, leaning back, spinning, his eyes always everywhere, alert, watching. The air came out, and the drinks came in, ash scattering over the counter in a thin gray line that was blown into shambles as the glass came crashing down upon it, grinding it into the plastic. People would come and go, shadows passing through the background; their existence in the viewpoints of the trio was as evanescent as the passing flight of a mayfly in a warm night, soon out of sense and memory. They swallowed the desensitized air that smelled of metal and boiling water, of tobacco and electricity and dimming light, and stepped through the horizons of doors, disappearing. They were not like that. They were not temporary. They were forever.  
A slender piece of wood dove down into constellations of shrimp and noodles, twirling within the juice, till it dragged a small piece out, repeating the motion many more times, and not only with this portion. Time felt like oil, slowly dripping over the walls, the bar near empty except for the three black-garbed infamous.  
He lit up a cigarette.  
A small crease formed between the brows of the barkeep. “Sir, no smoking here, please.” A glass knife cutting through the still air. But he only laughed, his lips twisting into a cruel grimace, a sharp-toothed crescent that bit into the light and tore it apart with the rough sound that came out of his throat.  
“What are you going to about it?” A whiff of smoke drifted away from the tip of his tongue, crowning his head with a wreath of heavenly mist.  
A slender hand crept up on his arm, sharp nails diving into the taut muscles.  
But he heeded it not.  
A poised finger pointed at a clear sign on the wall, crossing the shape of a cigarette with the slash of a red line.  
An equally poised finger was raised in return, pointing at the ceiling in an expression of carelessness.  
He breathed the flames and the ash alike, only softly releasing them from his lungs when he took hold of the cigarette in a heavy hand, every piece of metal rattling like a doomsday’s bell. Nothing could make him change, not the sunrise, and not the high tide. None of them, in fact. Order subsided to chaos with every passing day of this world, never quite strong enough to last, always swallowed up by the hungering abyss that insisted on its sovereignty. It was no battle that could be won. The pavements always cracked, the roads always twisted, there were always clouds and there were always ripples on the surface of the sea. Order was a fabricated idea.  
He understood that.  
He fell in love with that fact.

The ash-stained fingers took hold of a banknote, and pressed it firmly to the planks underneath, his fingertips feeling the rugged structure of the paper, every fabric colored a multitude of shades of green sensible under his skin. Softly, he slid it forwards. Curious, and perhaps too demanding for a world so chaotic, but he knew what he wanted. The cigarette butts littered the ground, and the air remained hazy, but his eyes were clear and gleaming when he found his target, hungry and consuming with every fraction of a second.  
He took interest. Like locking one’s aim on a certain target, he could see the red, like fresh blood spilled over the pure white sheets of the road that led ahead, and he wanted, and when he wanted, he took what he wanted. The banknote changed owners, passed from hand to hand and disappeared, and instead, a glass took its place, swiftly filling up with a clear liquid up to the top, like the seawater foaming up softly before it calmed, and slid across the plastic, glimmering like melting diamonds. His eyes were still so daring, asking for so much behind their paleness, they were stars that don’t beg, but take instead, and burn you to the core with a single wrong touch; but the fire was a liberation.  
Comfortably settling into its target’s hand, the drink found its destination under his cautious eye, savoring the confused expression it brought. The night was on its way already, before he got up, and passed by, a single hand sweeping past the elegant curve of a back in an action that elicited more than casual surprise.  
“Did you like the drink?” His voice was a silken purr.  
And it was met with the frightened eyes of a deer in headlights, a brilliant caramel that had been turned into cool copper by the artificial light, freezing, and so, so still at once.  
“What… Yeah… Why?” The response was frightened, and small, and confused, but it did not put him off. Instead, he slipped to the other side in a collection of smooth motions, leather creaking when he leaned against the counter, and his lips were cut into the knife-point of a sharp smile, luminous depths swirling under the shadows of his brows.  
“Just wanted to make sure. What’s your name?” A question that came up unexpected like a round from a revolver, and with the same velocity seemed to hit its target, leaving it staring with a slightly raised brow.  
A disturbance, a deep crease in the fabric of mundanity, shaking this soft and fragile world.  
But he recollected himself fast enough, one slender hand wrapping around the cold surface of the glass, a spider jealously guarding its net, while the other swept a curtain of coppers like sliding layers of organza behind his ear, shying away from the company that was unasked for.  
“Mairon.” he replied dispassionately, the word falling off his tongue like the torn petals of a flower in a windless evening, the sharp spikes of a guard slowly raising in response to intruding words and a presence that lingered too close.

The smoke still lingered inside, long after the burning lips of cigarettes had disappeared, a heavy silken haze that wrapped around the eyes and slowly choked at the throat. And like the low tide, things went silent for a little while, simmering down to the low-burning coals and the heartbeat, before the echoes of breaths and footsteps flooded the place with a dozen voices speaking in hushed tones, the silver and stiff clink of glasses clearer than the air that slithers off the shoulders of the ocean in the morning.  
He turned, emptying his drink of all but the last clear drop, and all of a sudden, the jacket was hugging his shoulders tightly as a needy, jealous lover. The response was only a raised brow, and a glass still steady on the surface of the counter.  
“Dude. Do you have a clue who about who just got you a drink?”  
An equally arched brow. He edged back, thin fingers suddenly stilling against the edges of the wood, and his lips pursed into a line as thin as the blurring horizon.  
“Someone I’ve never seen in my life.” His voice was certain.  
“You live under a rock.” A groan.  
Doubt. The silence was demanding an explanation, inquiring, unyielding.  
“I get that you don’t go out much, bless your nerdy heart, but you just got a beer from Melkor!”

**Author's Note:**

> He didn't ask for it, but Mairon just signed up for either a lot of fun, a lot of trouble, or a lot of both - depending on who you're talking to.


End file.
